


No Chance For Always

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Femslash, Genderswap, Gore, Jolto, Masturbation, Rule 63, basically a lot of queer girl feelings, explicit - Freeform, fem!sholto, genderbent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:43:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John prepared herself for everything she'd face in Afghanistan: the strength, the honor, and the sorrow. What she couldn't have prepared for was Major Sholto, a strong-jawed woman with a commanding air and soft, soft eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for a lot of people, actually. Mostly for me, because I wanted to write an actual jolto fic and fem!jolto is sort of my jam. But this is also for Lesley, jolto queen, who prompted me to write her jolto poetry way back when and caused me to spiral even deeper into hell.  
> I am currently in college, and might be very busy from time to time. My classes are spread out, and I often have afternoons open, so I'll probably be doing a lot of writing then. However, I am also currently working on two other fics! (I have no chill)  
> I'm writing a kidlock, which you can read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4156596/chapters/9378834), and also an AU based on Disney's Tangled, which you can find [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4480592/chapters/10185629).  
> I write because I love to, and I love this fandom, so if anything regarding the military or how it all works is off, just know that I'm here for the romance and the femslash, not the accuracies.  
>   
> Also, follow my [tumblr](http://crimson-winter.tumblr.com) for more johnlock/jolto goodies!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in a long time, John felt like she actually had control of her life.

John Watson was going to be in the army. She’d worked through uni, fulfilled all her requirements, and had done everything right. She was headed in the right direction, just like she’d planned. She knew how she’d go through training, build up her strength, and eventually become an army doctor. She was devoted, passionate, and willing. All of her expectations for herself involved hard work, and she knew this, but she was ready. She was ready for it all.

What she wasn’t ready for, that she didn’t yet know, was the people she’d meet amidst the golden Afghanistan dust. One woman, actually. 

But that is a story for later. We begin, here and now, with John. Who she is, what she’s like, why her name is John and not Jane, and what brings her to live the life of a soldier.

John Watson was, in all ways, a beautiful woman. She usually kept her golden hair in a long braid, thrown over her right shoulder. It curled a bit at the ends when it was down, but that was due to the fact that she always slept on it a bit wet. It cascaded down her shoulders around her pretty face, bangs teasing her thin blonde brows and the corners of her navy eyes. While her lips didn’t have the natural plumpness of her brother’s, they sat perfectly tempting under her prominent nose, tinted red and hiding a warm, comforting smile.

Her body, all through uni, had served her well, both in shape and structure. She was rather short, but otherwise practically perfect. She’d disagree with you on that about her bum, but all of her previous suitors and lovers told her it was fine. Round and wide, it worked with her thick hips and thighs. Her arms stayed toned from her usual exercise, and John was excited to push them to their limits in training. 

While gentle and light, with creamy skin and pretty eyes, inside, she burned. Feminine lips gave way to a quick tongue, often doused in stormy swears. Her passion had always driven her to great heights, the paramount of which: skilled army doctor. Smart, talented, and loyal, John cast a sight to behold, truly. When crossed, she’d whip out a few sharp words and follow with a punch or two if she had to. 

Sometimes, her ferocity drove people away. She had a few friends in uni, but only a few. She was rather lonely, since people tended to stay away from her. They wouldn’t go out of their way to speak to her unless they wanted to sleep with her. And truth be told, you _definitely_ wanted to sleep with John Watson. They said she could turn it from intimate to intense with one swivel of her powerful wrist. Those who experienced this could vouch, most certainly.

Now, why is this powerful woman named John, of all things? Simple. Her sonogram was misread, her mother - a devoted feminist. She liked the name John, and on the proposition that all names are gender neutral, she convinced her husband to keep it. It also made her baby unique, she said.

With it, John made her name her own. A feminist force to be reckoned with, she worked through primary, secondary, and tertiary school proudly, living up to her mother’s expectations and beyond. This lead her to the military, where she’d have to take all she knew about limits, and push them indefinitely. No stereotype or fallacy would bind John Watson.

It worked for her, this impending need for intensity, because as she was well-known and loved by many, she struggled to find herself. Keeping up appearances was easy when her reflection seemed prettier than her internal battles. She fought every day, for a variety of reasons, so she knew fighting for her country wouldn’t be too far outside of her capabilities. She would be fine, as long as she could disconnect. Which she often had to.

She disconnected from her parents’ fights, their inevitable breakup when she was only fourteen, and her mother’s death. She watched her brother nearly drink himself to death over it, leaning on alcohol like a crutch right as their mother entered hospital. John watched her father blame himself, as he probably should have, given his cheating sparked the marital issues. It worsened when the sickness took her, because while that might have been inevitable, John’s father felt like he ought to have given her a good life while she had it.

It was a mess, really, and even more so when Harry, her brother, had been outed accidentally. Their father surprise visited him over Christmas holiday a few years ago, dropping his bags in Harry’s sitting room. He searched all through the house for his son, and upon opening his bedroom door, he found Harry pounding hard into a boy named Clarence. 

Safe to say, things were a bit awkward after that. John told her brother that it was their father’s fault for not telling him he was coming, but Harry blamed himself anyway. Not enough to split up with Clarence, but enough to kick up the drinking again.

John watched it all unfold, trying to help as best she could, realizing that it might be best just to get away. That was the plan from the start anyway, but the sooner the better. She’d abscond to Afghanistan, either come home an honored hero or get shot to death. At this point, after everything her father had put them through, the latter might have been better.

She wasn’t suicidal, not really, but she knew the risks. And she took them all in stride. She may have underestimated the rate of PTSD in veterans, but she stayed determined. She was going to be in the army, and that was that. 

So, on this day, she kissed Harry on the cheek and disappeared into the night, flying off to Afghanistan and hoping maybe, maybe things would be different this time.

* * *

The first few weeks of training, John’s expectations had been met. She knew it’d be hard, and it was. She knew it’d be long hours, and it was. Everything was just as she thought. They learned how to properly armor up, how to cock their guns, how to make their cots, and how to maximize stamina. John had extra training in regards to medicine, even as she’d graduated university with incredible talent. What differed in these lessons, however, was the inevitability of death. They told her that, in the future, when she’d be put to work, that she couldn’t always save them. She had to try, and she promised them that she would, but they reinforced that sometimes trying doesn’t save them. She nodded and continued her training, hoping that when the time came, she’d be stronger.

While many things weighed heavily on her, it was wonderful to be somewhere new. For the first time in a long time, John felt like she actually had control of her life. She hadn’t felt this way since her first year at uni, when everything was dorms and library hours and labs and medicine. She loved the independence and freedom of university, and it was a bit like that here. Among the soldiers, things were sort of like school, but with comrades instead of students. The promise of honor and heroism was unlike striving for good grades, though. In this place, they strived for something else. John didn’t know what that was just yet, but she was eager to find out. Truly, looking upon the tents and buildings of her station, John Watson was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You might not want to call her naïve, but she was young, in heart and mind.

Outside of training, crawling in the mud and getting orders shouted at her and whatnot, John liked the down time very much. She didn’t like being bored, but most days weren’t boring in the slightest, and she enjoyed what little relaxation she could get. She enjoyed lounging around in cargo pants and boots, reading some porny magazine or another. She met some great girls, too, most of which had plenty of stories to tell. She listened happily, nibbling away at a scone during dinner, watching the girls’ eyes light up when they talked of their boyfriends back home. They told John all about their lives, and John was grateful for it. It meant she didn’t have to talk so much about hers. She was asked, of course, about her story, her reasons for coming here, and most often, why she had a bloke’s name. She gave the same answers every time, sometimes a bit vague, other times more in depth. She never revealed too much about her life, but she wanted to seem more accessible than she’d been, so she sorted through the girls and chose the best ones to open up to. If John felt like she could trust them, she’d tell them more. Never everything, though. It was strange, she wanted to be accepted, but she also wanted to remain reserved. She wanted to have some secrets, stay mysterious. Everyone back home knew everything about her, her family. She was glad for the chance to keep it held back, and she only offered the fluffy things to gain some approval.

And her comrades respected that. A few of them had the same idea, only mentioning their previous lives, husbands or children, when someone brought up the subject. John liked hearing about their husbands particularly. She liked when they told stories of him clogging the toilet or leaving the dishes unwashed. Sometimes, as they all sat around a low flame outside, they’d mention waking up in the morning to breakfast or sweet, tender kisses. They said that, truly, they loved him, even if he watched telly instead of going to their daughter’s dance recital.

It made John ache when the soldiers spoke of love, but she never mentioned it. She just laughed along, tipping back soup after saying something akin to, “Men… They aren’t good for anything, and when they are good, it’s not for long!”

Speaking of men, there were a few male soldiers here and there, but their section was mostly women. John expected this, actually, and wasn’t surprised that the few men felt a bit awkward in a mess hall full of strong, competent women. It made her laugh when a tall woman with thick legs walked back from the showers in a little blue towel that barely contained her bust, and some scrawny bloke watched her pass, eyes wide. She understood him, though, as she often openly gazed at her sisters in arms.

She liked the way their voices went hoarse when shouting commands, and how they could undress from all padded up and practical, down to just some shorts and a tank top. She liked being around so many. It reminded her of the dorms, and she liked it very much.

John liked women. She liked them so much that it was almost a problem. This was one of her internal battles, the coiling worry in her that she often smiled away. She always liked women, she liked talking to them and touching them and kissing them and making love to them. And it would have made sense, as it did with her brother, but she also liked men. Not really in the same way, but she still liked men. And she should have found it easier to hide her attraction to women by being with men, but it was only so much fun to play with blokes. She never fell in love with them, she found. She didn’t know why, really, but she never did. She tried, dating a lot of them, sleeping with a lot more, but they never struck her heart the way a woman did.

God, women. The way they could be soft and hard all at once, their fiery, demanding eyes turning calm and gentle in the hum of post-orgasmic bliss. How they always spared a moment for a deep talk, and how they twirled the charms of their necklaces in their soft fingers. John loved them, she really did.

So being here, surrounded by so many, was heaven. A few of them smiled at her in _that_ way, and a few more had patted her bum in on her way back from the showers. Sometimes they stopped her on her way to the washbasin and offered to tie her braid up into a bun. She had to have it up, anyway, in battle. Their fingers, which so often had held a gun or grappled at muddy ground, softly combed through her hair. One of soldiers she talked to most often did this, breathing on her neck in the empty night, about a month into training.

“So…” she said, voice going deep and gravelly with exhaustion. “Things are getting pretty real, aren’t they?”

John turned when she felt a finishing pat on her shoulder, looking into beautiful brown eyes, lit up by the dusty yellow camp lights. Diana, John recalled, flicked a curl from her brown cheek and folded her arms under her pert, unconfined breasts. John tried not to glance down as she did so, and instead smiled into Diana’s eyes. “Yeah. You up for the task?”

She laughed then, a beautiful, echoing chuckle. “Are you kidding me? I was born ready. I want to fight.”

They started walking, falling in step like old friends. “Risk it all, persevere, the greater good. There’s much more to it than fighting, you know.”

“I know,” she said, “but that’s all it really is, when it comes down to it.”

“I guess so.”

“Unless we’re all a bit fucked up, hoping to get shot, taking the inevitable risk of death because we secretly wish for it.” Their shoulders brushed as they moved towards the rec hall, boots shuffling up the loose Afghanistan dirt.

John let out a nervous huff that was meant to be a laugh, “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was Jamie's dream to become a Major in the armed forces.

Jamie Sholto smirked into her glass of milk as her father performed a drum solo on the kitchen pots and pans with wooden spoons. He wiggled his hips and flipped his short hair, pretending to be a rockstar, looking over to his daughter with a confident cock of his head. She raised her blonde brows at him, teething the rim of her cup. She then set it down and called to him, raising her chin up, corner of her mouth curling. “Mum’ll kill you, you know.”

Her father’s smile beamed brightly as he continued to bang the pots and pans, racks of dishes jingling against the counter as he did so. “She can’t kill rock and roll.”

“No, but she can kill _you_. And she will, if you scratch any of her good pans.” Jamie tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear.

“Such is the price - “ her dad did a little scale, down the line of his makeshift drums, “of rock!”

Jamie rolled her eyes and stood from the table. Approaching the counter on which his instrument sat, she gently placed her dishes in the sink and leaned into give him a kiss on the cheek. “Such is the price of rock,” she repeated. She then left her father to play for his nonexistent fans and moved up to her room. She let her fingers trail against the bannister as she went, looking at the usual paintings and photographs that lined the walls.

There were stills of her family, laughing and smiling in the heart of an adventure. She found herself, a strong-jawed young woman with kind blue eyes, amongst the happy faces. She mirrored them now, smiling so her cheeks went tight. 

Jamie loved her family, and she always had. Her little brother, inside and out, was better than she was, and her father was a good man. Her mother, the kindest, prettiest lady in the whole world, had given Jamie her eyes. She loved her family, her cats, hamsters, and birds, and the way her house always seemed to be filled with the sounds of life. It was all very dear to her heart, which was why it was so hard to leave for school a few years back.

She loved to return home, as she had now, and spend time with her parents and brother. She’d be cordial and sweet to the relatives that visited her over the holidays, and she’d never hesitate to bring up an old family tradition. However, once everyone had seen their fare share of the eldest Sholto child, she’d hide away in her bedroom. She’d flop back on her small bed, long limbs spilling everywhere, and dart her pretty blue eyes around the place. She’d look fondly at her posters of male rockstars and beautiful, powerful women, at her shelves, lined with books and photographs, and at the succulents that thrived in the windows, shades of green nestled in colored pots. Her room was her favorite place, so personal and diverse. Her friends often said it was like a visual representation of her mind, handkerchiefs and records and vintage clothes scattered everywhere. Jamie would agree with them, she would, since she took pride in having made it her own. She loved it so much, in fact, that when she’d come back from uni, she’d just lay around in bed, curled up in blankets that smelled like strawberry detergent, and listen to her favorite music. Sometimes she’d sit cross-legged in the big, round chair by the window and play her guitar. Little trills of notes and melodies drifted underneath her soft hums, and after a while, her brother or dad would poke his head in and smile at her. “Sounds great, James,” he’d say. 

She liked it when people called her James.

Often, after playing for a while, she’d trudge back into the living room and sit with her parents, telling them stories about school and the people she’d met. That’s what she did now, a few days after her father’s concert in the kitchen. She sat on the couch with her mother, feet curled up under her, sipping cocoa with cinnamon. 

One of her favorite things about her mother was that they could sit like this, as the night ticked on, reading silently beside each other or chatting lightly. She felt safe and loved in these moments, which she often used as the perfect platform for discussing her love life. 

Open and emotional, she went to her mother confidently. This was due in large part to how supportive and loving her parents were. When she casually slipped in details of the girl she had a crush on at age twelve, her mother and father just shared a glance and smiled, letting her babble on about the girl’s pretty eyes without a second thought. It was never a problem for her, liking women. This made everything a lot easier growing up, and she was infinitely grateful for it. 

Now, Jamie discussed Carrie, the girl she had been dating back at school.

“We went out once or twice, but she went home for the holidays, like me, so I haven’t seen her in a while.” The dusty cinnamon swirled at the bottom of her mug as Jamie set it on the table.

“Do you want to, I mean, do you like her?” Patricia Sholto asked before sipping her cocoa from a mug Jamie had given her a few years prior. It said “#1 Grandma” on the side, with a little wrinkled raisin of a woman beside the colorful letters. It was a joke gift that Jamie had given her, considering Jamie had little to no interest in bearing children, and to see her mother use it now, years later, warmed her heart.

Jamie shifted her legs under her as she said, “Yeah. Yeah, I mean yeah, I do. I don’t know, sort of. She’s nice, but I feel like I could find someone better, you know? Someone meant for me.” One of their cats, Olive, padded across Jamie’s lap. She scratched his head as her mother spoke.

“Honey, this is only your second year of uni. You can’t expect to find that.”

“No, I know. I’m not assuming, I just thought - “

“I know what you thought, Jay. You thought that true love would have come to you sooner than this.” She sipped her cocoa, “But of course, you’d never say it like that.”

Jamie laughed, Olive kneading his claws into her thighs. “You make it sound like I’m this hopeless, starry-eyed romantic.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“No! I just want to meet the right person… What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing’s wrong with that, it’s just… Well.” Patricia set her mug down and turned her attention on her daughter, raising a dark brow. “Let’s see - she has to be kind, confident, brave, headstrong, beautiful, definitely a feminist, and what else? Oh, a good kisser. Isn’t that right?”

Jamie went as pink as her shirt. “Mum! I don’t have a _list!_ I’m not that picky.”

Her mother hummed, “Mhm, sure.”

“Mum.”

Patricia looked at her daughter, at her pink cheeks and messy layered hair. She was hopelessly romantic, and she always had been. Mrs Sholto then sighed. “Fine,” she said. “I’m just teasing. What I’m… trying to say is that you won’t find the person you’re meant to be with if you’re constantly looking for them. Who knows, maybe Carrie is ‘the one,’ and you just don’t know it because you’re sort of… caught up in looking for her.”

Settling her gaze at the old grandfather clock across the living room, Jamie pressed her lips together. “All right, okay. Maybe I am, maybe she is. Maybe I’ll give her a chance.”

There was a moment of silence between daughter and mother, Olive’s purr and the grandfather clock’s tick the only sound in the room. Then they both laughed, a similar type of chuckle, before they said in unison, “Probably not.” 

Jamie let the giggle subside before she pet Olive’s sleek black fur, looking fondly at his little paws. “It’s fine,” she said, hoping to end the conversation on a light note. “I know I’ll find her. Someday.”

* * *

Honor, respect, worth, morality - Jamie knew of these well. She saw them in her friends and family, expressing acts of heroism in various ways. It wasn’t just saving kittens from trees, it was standing up for something important, or staying down when someone else’s voice needed to be heard instead. She wanted to be honorable, and she tried to be, in whatever ways she could. Despite this, it wasn’t enough. Jamie wanted to make an impact. She wanted, and needed, for her own idea of self worth, to achieve honor through some heroic act. What she thought this was, or could be, was serving in the army.

Yes, the army. She wanted to join the army. She’d worked to, anyway. Her parents, while they’d rather see their lovely daughter work as a teacher or run a bookshop, supported her decision and always listened to her hopes and plans. Jamie would go on and on about honor and heroism and serving her country and fighting for what’s right, a pretty gleam in her blue eyes. Her parents just shrugged and wished her luck, telling her not to get shot before she could make a name for herself.

And that name, Jamie hoped, anyway, would be that of a Major. It was her dream to become a Major in the armed forces.

She was well on her way, too, with all that she’d researched and prepared for. She knew the ranks and the years of work she’d have to put in to get there. It was all fine with her, though, as she wanted desperately to get there.

Jamie left for Afghanistan after many years of university. She was excited beyond belief, and as she was being brought to the military base with a bunch of soldiers, on the final leg of her long trip, she felt the first wave of homesickness. Cramped in the back of a dusty truck, knees sore and head pounding, she missed her mother, father, and brother terribly. She missed the worn spots on her kitchen stove, the burn stains on her curtains, and the sound of the hamsters’ chittering in the middle of the night. It was sentimental and out of place and terribly heartbreaking, and as the truck bumped and shifted, other soldiers napping or chatting in the back, Jamie weeped. 

This was all she wanted, to be here. It was all she’d ever wanted. She didn’t take leadership and history of military in university for nothing - it was all for this, everything was for this. And she was well on her way, she really was, but for the life of her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t ready. That she was abandoning the best of her life, leaving behind her wonderful, privileged life.

She cried for a long while in the back, until the truck came to a stop and she scrambled out with the other women. A heavy breeze blew golden Afghanistan dust into her face, and she could feel it sticking to her wet cheeks. She scrubbed it away and breathed, deep into her chest. 

 _I’m okay,_ she thought. _I’m here, and I’m going to be okay._

Remembering something that had helped her quite a bit in tenth year, Jamie repeated it to herself now, eyes on the her dusty boots. _Keep breathing,_ she told herself. _All we can do is keep breathing._  

So she breathed in deeply, dust tickling her nose. She closed her eyes against the piercing golden sun and let her chest rise and fall. She could feel the bodies brushing past her as women unloaded their sacks from the back of the truck, so she moved to the side, just to have a moment. Waiting a little longer, just breathing, she opened her eyes. The panic and sadness had calmed, and she stood now, powerful and strong. She looked on at the base, at the little brown buildings and white canopy tents. The distant hills rolled beyond, sizzling and dancing in waves of heat. Soldiers milled about, some women bending at the waist to fix their laces or fold their cuffs down against the dust. Sounds of military life hadn’t yet drifted on the wind, but the beginnings of it had. Some shouting, some scraping of luggage, and even distant trumpets. 

Jamie took it all in, hands on her hips. And, after hauling her sack down from the truck, she managed a small smile. It was comforting on her lips, and once she redid her sloppy bun, shoulder length hair tying back nicely, she set off towards the first moments of her long awaited dream.

A few weeks passed then, and after settling in, Jamie found that the homesickness had melted into a steady hum of memory. She could sit at the dining hall and recount her mother’s home-cooked meals, but she didn’t cry for them. Sure, they were infinitely better than the glop and crumbs that she had now, but she couldn’t very well run back to England for warm scones. And once training started, she found she nearly had no time to feel homesick, as she focused on the physical pain and exhaustion training entailed.

Indeed, it seemed to be a rough transition for Jamie Sholto, from the emptiness in her chest at leaving her family, to the sharp pain that spiked there after crawling through the mud. But no matter what, the strong young woman told herself, no matter any of this, it would be worth it. It was worth it because she was _here._ Finally, she had made it _here_. And she was ready for it, all of it, in order to achieve that honorable title of Major Sholto.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me so much trouble, oh my god. But anyway, here's Sholto. The second half of our love story ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John would lay, face-up in her bed, eyes closed to envelope herself in the twisted memory.

Time had elapsed. John Watson had trained just as Jamie Sholto had. In their own private sectors, on opposite bases, they worked vigorously towards their dreams - one, a doctor. The other, a major. They gained muscle and lost fat. They toned up and shaped up, and by the end of the first three months, both were well on their way to becoming strong, capable soldiers.

However, training was only part of the experience. Surely, a prominent part, but not the entirety of what was promised to her: the “unique army experience.” John was sore from training and would certainly remember the strain of her biceps and the tendons on the inside of her thighs, of course, but there was something else to it. Something beyond.

It was the down time, at her own leisure, that John felt most fond of. She’d sit ‘round and talk to the other soldiers, each of them becoming their own specific memory, characterized by their idiosyncrasies. She knew them, they were her friends. Her sisters, her comrades. She’d sit amongst them and cast her lovely navy eyes on all the handsome women around her as they drank warm beer in the false yellow lighting of the dining hall. John would reach over to pick the extra bread scrap off someone’s plate, laughing with a scratchy husk that screaming practiced orders left in her.

Then, after hours, it was thin white undershirts and playing cards and uncomfortable mattresses, fit bodies damp with sweat from the hot Afghanistan nights. She liked these moments the most, the heat and presence of the women’s bodies, the soft laughter, the wandering hands.

Indeed, she loved it when her close friends got a little too close, a little too friendly. She ended up kissing their warm necks, hands on their thighs. She’d trail her lips along their jawlines, sometimes still grubby with dust from the day’s activities. Her hands worked their way up their solid, powerful torsos, but before she could cup a breast or two in her worn palms, they playfully pushed her away and told her to quit it. John, no matter how interested she was, never touched them after they told her to stop. She was, after all, honorable and good. Instead, she just blushed, chuckled a bit, and offered her apologies. Still a bit drunk, her friends would pat her thigh and say, “It’s okay, Johnny. Maybe one day you’ll find a girl who’ll like it. Then you can do it all you like.” 

John blushed harder and avoided responding by drinking the last bits of foam from her green beer bottle.

This only happened a few times before John got the hint completely and stopped trying. Her friends didn’t mind, good as they were, and never mentioned it. They still smiled sweetly at her, though, sometimes a little hotly. They’d flirt across the card table and even squeeze John’s thigh or arm in the midst of a laugh.

John passed it off as well as she could, but when everyone had separated, she couldn’t settle in her skin. She buzzed with arousal, erotic energy. She wanted to touch, to be touched. She wanted to feel the writhing, curvy body of a woman under her hands. Her sexual cravings had only gotten worse as she was surrounded by strong, capable women. They were so powerful in their wake, so furiously astounding. Unlike anything she’d seen up until that point, man, woman, or otherwise. She wanted them, God, how she wanted them.

And sure, John supposed she could take a man, maybe, but men didn’t sizzle her blood like women did. And the only men they had around to fantasize about were scrawny nurses and hefty cooks. Not very exciting.

So, needy and desperate, she was left to fantasize about women. John would stay up, replaying the scenes in her head ’til they turned hazy with lavender lust, the playful touches of her friends blending into heated gropes. John would lay, face-up in her bed, eyes closed to envelope herself in the twisted memory. Often, John would touch herself with the same fervor, trail her calloused hands down the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. She’d imagine a plethora of women, sometimes faceless, sometimes resembling her friends, moving their tanned hands under her shirt. She’d mirror the touches as she imagined them, pushing up the thin material of her undershirt to trace the outline of her abs and ribs. She’d cup her own breast through her activewear, then push her needy fingers underneath to pinch her nipples.

Canting her wide hips off the bed in response, she’d user her other hand to smooth down her stomach towards her pelvis, slipping below the band of her trousers. Beautiful women with round bums and pert breasts drifted through John’s tipsy, sleep-deprived mind. They touched her crotch, rubbing her through the fabric of her pants. It felt so good, so _good_ , and John couldn’t help but breathe a needy whine into the darkness of her tent as she rubbed herself. Damp and swollen, John let out a helpless cry, muffled by the crook of her arm, as she slipped beneath her pants and touched her slick pink flesh. 

It was such a helpless arousal, as she’d yet to fully sate her hunger, but she tried all the same. Spreading her supple thighs for better access, John slipped her hand lower. Wet and wide from the fantasy that she indulged in, John found herself dipping a finger inside herself while the heel of that same hand ground into her clitoris. Chest heaving with a shuddering bout of pleasure, she continued in earnest, pulsing her finger and rolling her wrist. 

It was a tricky maneuver that she’d learned to perfect in her years in uni, and while she’d love to perform it on a willing woman, for the moment, her own body was all she had. But God, how it worked.

Sparks of pleasure shot from her groin to her chest, where her other hand desperately palmed her breast and hard nipple. The women in her fantasies had now moved to her head and needy groin. One of them spread her plush brown thighs atop John’s face, while the other moved down between John’s legs. John had had some fantastic bouts of sex, full to the brim with positions such as this, but none would ever or could ever be as perfect as that of her fantasy. And, as it continued, John fucking herself quite jovially to it, she found that the mechanics were lost to pleasure. She didn’t know what exactly the shimmering ghosts of sex were doing to her, or what she was doing to them, but it didn’t matter. John Watson was getting off to it all the same, moaning desperately and letting her wet, pink tongue loll outside of her lips and lick a phantom woman. Writhing in her bed, legs spreading impossibly wider, her hand released her breast to pull on the edge of the mattress. She was close to coming, spurred on by her own body’s reactions and breathless moans, the lewd nature of her tongue lapping at nothing, but it was one particular phantom woman that sent her over the edge. 

Brilliant turquoise eyes under dark, wild curls and a pink cupid’s bow smile flashed across John’s mind, and then she was spasming, hips canting up in the throes of her orgasm.

When the sparks dulled, and her fingers felt wet and cold, John Watson’s sated body fell back into her bed. Humming in satisfaction, she blessed the isolation of her sleeping quarters.

She really should have been in the halls with the other soldiers. However, she was training especially as a medical physician, and for some reason, she was granted her own tent. It wasn’t large, and it definitely wasn’t breezy, but it was isolated all the same, and she took no hesitations in using it for card nights and… well, this.

Which, if she were honest, happened more often than she liked to admit. 

John couldn’t help it, though. Especially after a long day of crawling through the dirt and learning how to shout for help should a soldier fall. It was exhilarating, completely erotic in its own strange way, and John found herself wound up every night. Some nights, she just stayed awake and thought pitifully of her home and her brother, but others, an orgasm or two, fueled by the day’s activities, put her to sleep. 

Of course, this didn’t keep her from succeeding as a soldier. Her lust and loneliness were one thing, but devotion to honor and the art of the military were another. She fulfilled her duties with grace and assurance and poise. She learned how to identify and patch wounds unique to war and how to calm a dying soldier. She knew how to hide, how to point, and how to shoot. She was a good little soldier.

Yet, it just so happened that after a long day of being a good, honorable girl, she had to be _bad_. And, as she knew, she’d always been that way. No chance in Hell would her naughtiness leave her because she crossed continents.

* * *

In contrast, Jamie Sholto remained good and pure all through the night. Her fantasies, while sometimes teetering on passionate, were more synonymous with fairytales than erotic novels. She knew, she absolutely _knew_ that there was no way in this life or any other that she would find love in times of war. She knew that, she knew that it’d be impossible to sustain a healthy, committed relationship when leading soldiers into battle…

Still, she wanted it.

She would catch the eyes of her higher ranking officers and wonder if, behind their cool sunglasses, they found her lovely. She would talk to her few friends and wish that one of them would suddenly turn to her and say, “Jamie, do you feel that?” and then the spark between them would grow to a steady hum of romance and they’d be kissing and kissing and ride off into the sunset on white horses.

All right, Jamie knew the horses were a stretch, but the romance was all there. Or, it could be, should she find it.

Instead, she sat pleasantly at the dining table and stirred her beans. She thought of pretty women and a life beyond the army. She liked the army, liked being a part of it, but another side of her longed for a life she’d yet to live. A life with the right girl at the right time. 

She didn’t know that she would find the right girl, sooner than she could ever think, but it definitely would not be the right time.

Jamie sat then, head bowed, listening to the women talk of their boyfriends, watching the pink rise to their cheeks as they mentioned his sex. On this particular evening, Jamie was lost to a fantasy of a woman with red hair and pretty brown freckles when loud vulgarity tuned her into the conversation across the table.

“-said, ‘How about you unload the dishwasher for once, Robert?’ And he said, ‘Would ya suck my dick?’ And I said, ‘You’re my goddamn husband. I shouldn’t have to ask you to unload the dishwasher, nor should you ask me to suck that shriveled peanut you call your dick.’”

All the women around the table laughed, one of them dipping her elbow into her beans. Jamie seemed to be the only one to see this and snorted a small smirk. Another woman spoke up then, “You truly are missing out, Emma. My boyfriend has the best cock, and he doesn’t even have to use it. It all in the hands and mouth. Sometimes the knees.”

“Knees?” Emma guffawed.

“Yes!” The woman squeaked. Jamie tried to remember if her name was Rebecca or Renee. Either way, she went on. “See, it’s like, he can either bend over me and press his knees into… well, _there,_ or I can sit atop him and sort of grind down onto it. It’s very pleasurable.” The woman with the peanut-cocked husband watched the other soldier’s lips move until they paused for a bite of bread. Then she turned her eyes on Emma and chewed, “There’s tons of different ways of pleasure, you know. Though, by the sound of it, your husband doesn’t know too many.”

A few chuckles sounded before another woman spoke up, “These tips and tricks… They ain’t really necessary now though, ain’t they? We don’t got too many men to try them on.”

More snickers sounded, as well as some shifting of cups and plates. 

“No…”

“That’s true.”

“Well, the nurses.”

More laughter.

Then, clear and supposedly funny, “There’s always the _lesbian_ approach,” someone said.

The soldiers really laughed at that one, some of them even shaking their heads in refusal.

Jamie flushed hot in embarrassment. Her existence was still a joke to many people, even as her family had been incredibly supportive. She focused back on her unappealing supper, hoping to God they couldn’t smell it on her.

Fortunately, nobody was wise enough to see her discomfort, and the laughter gave way to an awkward hum. The soldiers who’d heard the initial joke took sips of their drinks or spoonfuls of rice or beans. Then, right when the conversation should have turned, a comely woman sitting diagonally across from Jamie spoke up, “You know, it’s more common than you think. To, er, have an experience the army. A lot of women do, even if they have husbands and boyfriends back home.”

Turning her face towards her, stomach fluttering a bit, Jamie found that the woman was blushing a bit. Her cheeks were round and pink and she had dark raven hair, pulled into two braids that went over her breasts. Her brows were thin and brown, and her lips were pale and curved with no cupid’s bow. It was her eyes that had heat curling into Jamie’s stomach, though. They were light, so light, like ice. She locked them onto Jamie’s as the rest of the women muttered, and when the conversation turned back to her, questioning her meaning, she simply said, “There’s nothing wrong with being a little queer.”

Her eyes didn’t leave Jamie as she spoke, and even as the major-in-training dropped her gaze back to her beans, she knew the young woman kept her eyes on her. 

The discussion died down after that, only picked up again when a soldier complained about the food. A full-scale dissection of the cooks, nurses, and officers launched then, Jamie still smiling into her lap, sneaking glances at the pretty woman across the table. 

 _Maybe it won’t be too hard to find love_ , Jamie thought. _If I’m able to first find a friend._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this fic was giving me so much trouble. It often does, I think, until I get it going. Apparently, after procrastinating and panicking and nearly vomiting from whatever it was that blocked this chapter, classic horny John Watson was the key. 
> 
> Anyway, here's this. Since this fic is, what I would say, not my main focus right now, feel free to look at my other fics - primarly johnlock - while this one struggles to be written.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wishing away the memory of soft skin under her fingertips, John focused on the torn flesh beneath her palms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for blood and gore in this chapter, in case you want to skip it.

The first time a woman died under John’s hands, she grieved deeply for three weeks. The weeks after that, it was just constant disappointment in herself, even as she performed many successful operations.

Directly following the incident, her hands felt slow and numb, as if they couldn’t have moved fast enough to keep the woman’s organs inside her. And, while she’d scrubbed them, she still felt as though they were tinged orange with blood, the beds of her nails stained brown.

She felt horribly at fault. It was, after all, her lack of skill which killed her. She’d been trying, desperately, _desperately_ trying to save her, but it didn’t work. She didn’t make it.

John felt heavy and empty and restless and angry and miserable all at once, but no matter her regret, her nightmares, Diana had still died. 

* * *

She’d been cleaning her tools after a simple procedure when a pair of lower class medics rushed in with a slumped body. John saw red before she could spare the solider a second glance. Staying calm, John helped move the body onto her work table, where she and the other medics immediately began removing the soldier’s armor.

John didn’t ask what happened, she knew. Each layer revealed a large crimson stain on the soldier’s abdomen, down to the bare skin. Shot in the stomach.

Breathing steadily through her nose, John immediately pressed her hands flat to the wound, shouting at the others to bring her gauze and ointments. They rushed away from the table, giving John a small moment to recognize the body beneath her hands.

Diana.

Beautiful, gentle Diana, who’d been so kind to her those first few weeks. As they grew to know each other, speaking in passing, drinking in John’s tent, John found she liked her very much. Naturally, life wouldn’t be so fair as to give John a friend so soon, and Diana was suddenly moved to another section. They saw less and less of each other until John had found new friends. These friends she flirted with just as much as she had Diana, but they never responded as she did. Diana had been so open, so loving, even so far as sleeping in the same bed as John, waking before the sun rose, sneaking back to her tent as John slept. But it’d be a fleeting, half-drunk slumber, and nothing had happened.

Now, with her tight, bloody abdomen under her hands, John wished something had.

She looked at Diana’s face, which had gone clammy and pale as the blood rushed to the hole in her stomach. Her usual brown glow, high cheeks pulled tight by a brilliant smile, was now vapid and damp. The medics returned just as John looked away from the dust on her lips, the oil in the creases of her eyelids, and the terrified sweat on her brow.

Faintly, the medics were calling her. They were calling her Doctor Watson, a title she’d not yet gotten used to.

Wishing away the memory of soft skin under her fingertips, John focused on the torn flesh beneath her palms. She was still pressing, hard, and she demanded one of her nurses to take over as she unraveled the gauze.

“Is the bullet still inside her?” John heard herself ask, steady hands pressing the cloth to the wound. The white of it immediately went red.

“Yes, no exit wound.”

“I have to get it out.”

“She’s lost a lot of blood, Doctor, we don’t have time-“

John ignored them. “I have to get it out.”

She reached for her freshly cleaned tools, a scalpel and a pair of forceps. She worked fast, removing the gauze and pressing through the torn flesh with the scalpel, searching for the bullet. John could feel the patient writhe beneath her, as well as hear her desperate wails. The pain had woken her, and now she clawed helplessly at John’s forearms. The doctor paid her no heed, still prodding for the lodged bullet.

The other medics had gone silent as John worked, seeing as their advice had not been taken. They held the patient down, one of them pressing a cool, damp flannel to her forehead as John retracted the bullet from her stomach.

She laid it and the forceps aside and immediately reached for a fresh flannel and a mild cleanser. She dampened the cloth and began cleaning the wound, sopping up the blood as best she could. Unfortunately, Diana was restless, and every time she tensed and thrashed, her wound filled with blood, and John couldn’t keep up.

“The bullet’s out,” John said, giving up on wiping and pressing the deep red cloth to her abdomen.

“Doctor, she’s not going to make it.”

Sweat prickled John’s forehead, the back of her neck, and the small of her back. Panic curled low in her stomach, and she glanced at Diana’s pained face as pressed into her abdomen harder. “Yes, she is.”

The tent felt small, and John resented the fact that there were two other people besides just her and Diana, as they crowded her space, high-strung voices pleading her. She knew she was speaking back, but she couldn’t register any sound as she fumbled for her kit. The metal box slipped out of her bloody fingers, but she tried again. She retrieved her needle and thread, distantly aware that Diana was already half-dead.

“Her internal organs are damaged, Doctor, stitches won’t solve anything.”

Lips numb, John grumbled, “It’ll stop the blood.”

“She’s lost too m-“

Interrupting, John snapped. “Calm the patient, Warren.”

Warren complied. As much as she fought, John was the doctor, and her orders went. The medic went to the head of the table as John stayed at Diana’s side, focusing solely on her wound.

Seemingly calm as she felt for the skin around the opening, internally, John panicked. The nurses were right, she’d lost too much blood. She was continuing to pulse and spasm, sopping up multiple stretches of gauze. Time was running out, and in that moment, John had little confidence that she could save Diana. As she looked back at it weeks later, she felt that her self doubt was, inevitably, what had killed her.

Still, she had readied her hands and moved the cloth. John pressed the tip of the silver needle into Diana’s flesh, pushing through and then pulling the thread tightly. She went across the wound, to the other side, and pressed again. Diana quivered under her hands, pulsing so the wound pooled with blood. This time, torn pieces of organs arrived against the red, and John tried not to react to the smell. She had gotten to stitch number five, working through the slough of blood, by the time one of the medics told her that the patient had gone unconscious.

John was about to confirm that an unconscious patient was better than a conscious one, but the tone of her voice suggested that Diana had slipped away and, by association, John had failed.

Her mouth formed a soft, “No,” as her hands left the needle and thread and moved to Diana’s face.

The medics went to her wound, pressing down again. The needle fell against her bare skin.

At the head of the table, John tried to wake her.

“Diana, Diana, come on.”

The patient didn’t respond.

John shook Diana’s shoulders before shouting behind her, “Harder, press harder.”

She then swiped her bloodied thumbs over her cheekbones, leaving streaks. “Hey, hey.”

Then, though it was slow and feeble, Diana parted her lips and opened her eyes, dark, blown pupils rolling back into her skull. John picked her head up, forcing her to loll back to attention.

“Di. Di, talk to me.”

“John?” It was the weakest, smallest sound, just a scrape of air past pale lips.

John’s stomach tightened. “Yes, it’s me. I’m your doctor.”

“It hurts.”

“I know. I have to patch you up.”

Diana’s eyes closed, lids ridden with dark purple veins. “Takes too long.”

Huffing the smallest, closed-mouth laugh, John smoothed back Diana’s hair. Her curls went slick with blood. “You’re impatient.”

“No, just dying.”

“Don’t say that. You’re going to live.”

“No. I’m not,” Diana mouthed. She canted her chest up in a surge of pain.

Warren called to her, “Doctor, are you going to finish her stitches?”

Eyes on the dusty, sweaty columns of Diana’s neck as they flexed under her spasms, John forgot to respond.

“Doctor Watson?”

“Yeah, sorry. More gauze.” She moved back to Diana’s stomach, angry at herself for leaving it partially patched. Picking up the needle and resuming her stitches, she called to Diana. “You’re going to be all right.”

“Doctor,” someone said. John didn’t know anymore. She just kept stitching, trying desperately not to notice how the amount of blood lessened, as if most of it had already been bled.

She worked, speaking to Diana, to herself, to anyone as she went. “You’re going to go home, okay? You’re going to see Missy again. She’s going to be so happy to see you.”

Another stitch, pulling the black thread through.

“Get out of here, go home, see everyone.”

And another.

“It’s all gonna be fine.”

Now, if John were to go back to that dusty little tent and watch herself operate, she’d have thought herself pathetic. She ignored the wound and addressed the patient personally, which was completely unprofessional. Moreover, John would have seen herself mumble helplessly as Warren and Alexi stood aside, dabbing the blood off her hands. She had always worked silently, shouting orders for more tools or cloth, but never had she panicked so fiercely that she needed to verbally comfort herself. John would have watched herself flail, stitch over the same spot, and mention dogs and home cooked to a dead woman.

But in that moment, during that operation, John couldn’t help it. She was trying, trying so hard to keep the blood inside her, trying to stitch as quickly as possible. She went on, feigning confidence. Diana had been dead for twenty seconds before she realized it.

Alexi stilled her hands and held them together until John looked up. If John had seen her own face, she would have said it was a hopeless realization, brows previously knit in concentration softening, lips falling open. It was a moment of looking into sorry grey eyes before Alexi shook her head and released her. She moved away to begin cleaning the tools and cloth, leaving John standing over the dead soldier.

The operation had failed in less than minutes, a quick but painful death.

John avoided looking at Diana’s face for as long as she could, wiping the blood off her hands, turning away from the table, and telling Warren and Alexi that they did a good job in aiding her.

“You can’t save everyone, Watson,” Warren said, snipping the thread that laced through three quarters of the patient’s wound.

John nodded. “I know,” she said calmly.

It was only when she saw Diana’s slack face, head laying to one side, plump lips parted, John’s bloody fingerprints on her cheeks and hairline, did John resent that she didn’t believe that for shit.

* * *

After that, John tried desperately to be as professional as she could. She saved many soldiers, but every abdomen wound had her flaring up in anxiety. Of course, she now knew that the most important thing was to minimize blood loss, and that stalling in any way would result in disaster.

The soldiers knew of Diana’s death, and they patted John on the back or told her it wasn’t her fault whenever they saw her. That was the worst part about being a soldier as well as a doctor. She had to see Diana’s friends, live the life she would have had she survived.

Once the initial shock had passed and everyone moved on as best they could, John stopped grieving over the loss of her patient, her own failure. Instead, she grieved the loss of her friend. Even in the quick moments of seeing her, Diana had always reassured her that they’d chosen an honorable life. She’d run her thin fingers through her curls, smooth down her dark brows, and look at John like the threat of death didn’t envelope them at every turn.

Life moved on, and John would get water and remember when she’d meet Diana at the spigot. She missed that, standing there, just for a moment, asking her how she was doing as they filled their canteens.

“Same old, same old,” Diana would say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She’d then lean over the spigot, tags lifting off her pert chest and dangling between them. “But hey, you wanna hear something juicy?”

John smiled, “Always.”

“I heard that Lauren is fucking that scrawny redhead nurse.”

“Leonard?”

Diana bit her bottom lip. John remembered glancing at her mouth, wondering if it might taste like it looked, like mocha. “Yeah. She sneaks off during rec hours to go for a quick shag.”

“Well, is he good?”

“Who knows? At least she’s getting it.”

John smirked, “True.”

“Listen, I gotta get back. We’re taking bets on how pissed Maxine’ll be when she finds them. I’ll see you ‘round?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

Diana clapped John on the shoulder and smiled beautifully before turning away from the spigot, swaying her round hips as she crossed back across the base. John remembered watching her go, wishing that she had a little bit longer to talk to her, one more dinner in which John would sit and listen to let her go on and on about her dogs and her brothers.

A few months after losing her, John sat on her cot in the dark, remembering everything. She remembered the nights of warm beer and dancing to raspy radio music. She remembered the brown crescent shaped birthmark on Diana’s jaw, and how one time she’d jokingly pressed a soft kiss there. She wished there was a chance for more, a chance for another moment. But there was no chance, and there never would be again, because she had died in surgery, and it was John’s fault.

It was all her fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this chapter passes in regards to messy military operations lmao.
> 
> Poor John. She really does try, but sometimes you just... can't save them. Such is the life of war.
> 
> Merry Christmas! I'm done with my finals and have more than a month for break, so I get to _finally_ update my fics! This is a pretty heavy welcome home, but you know. It's wartime jolto. What do you expect?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They hadn’t moved from the center of camp, but the world had gone blurry in swatches of beige and gold and blue as Jamie held the woman’s gaze.

Three years into her service, John Watson met the woman who’d change everything.

In this years, she’d grown accustomed to army life, how could she not? It was all she knew. She’d lived for three years in the Afghanistan dust in thick trousers and boots. She’d developed a tan, she’d lost her fat and replaced it with muscle. John hadn’t eaten a legitimate meal in all her days there, and her body had shaped itself around maximum strength and stamina. She was a force to be reckoned with, war-hardened and strong. Her life before the war was far out of her mind, and only at night did she dream of carpets and the smell of her brother’s shampoo. She sent letters to Harry only occasionally, but never her parents. Even then, the letters were more out of courtesy than desire. She left Harry on good terms, but they still didn’t get on as well as they could. Fortunately here, she didn’t have to think about siblings. Only her job, a bleeding body beneath her hands, the shadowy figures across the valley she pointed a weapon at. John focused on her duties, her impact. She’d saved many soldiers, and only lost a few. She’d seen battle, swollen red wounds, good women shudder as a bullet passed through them mere feet beside her.

It was only when she’d found the steady blue eyes of Jamie Sholto did she think all of it might have been worth it.

John had been lacing her boots in her tent when she’d heard the order.

“Soldiers! Outside, now!”

Immediately she tugged the thick string tight and hustled outside, pushing through the opening of the tent and blinking into the high afternoon sun. Hot and dry, the wind kicked up the loose strands of sun-bleached hair at the sides of her face, and she tugged her white undershirt back into place.

Joining her fellow soldiers, she stood in the back of the collective group and leaned up against the hood of one of the bases’ rovers. Other women were standing about, lounging, one of them even sitting on the hood, legs pulled up. They’d not been given the order to stand at attention, yet the soldiers were silent as their commander paced before them.

A thick woman with purple sunglasses, their group leader stood against the blue sky and golden hills, hands on her high, round hips. She looked at the three dozen or so women standing before her and stopped, square and proud as she said, “As some of you may know, we’re transferring in someone from another base to replace Major Carlton. Carlton was a good woman and a damn good major, but a shot to the hip can wreck even the best of us. Now, when I introduce this new major to you, you are going to treat her with all the respect you gave Major Carlton and more. She is your superior, she is here to help you, and within your ranks, what she says goes. We are going to suppose that she’s competent and capable, as I suppose all of you are. I expect you all to be on your best behavior as she familiarizes herself with our base.” She paused and took her glasses off, deep brown eyes darting to each and every soldier. “Understood?”

The soldiers all sounded their agreement, some of them perking up and signaling while the more daring ones remained lax. Commander Avidan quirked a brow at them before she raised her chin high and continued. “Right then. Major Sholto, will you please introduce yourself?”

A figure stepped out from behind the nearest tent and walked stiffly towards the group of women. She was tall, John could see that, but the sun glared in her eyes just as the new major approached and John couldn’t catch a glimpse of her face.She wore no cap or shades and dressed more like the soldiers, cargo trousers and a beige short-sleeved shirt, silver dog tags hanging ‘round her neck. Still, she held herself proudly as she walked forward, and, as John had a keen eye for the shape of women’s bodies, she easily noted the long legs, curved hips and bountiful bust, her thick arms and wide shoulders stretched beneath the fabric. The stranger paused beside the commander just as the glare cleared.

From her spot leaning against the hood, John shifted and craned to make out the major’s face. When she did, something flared hot in her stomach and she found she couldn’t look away as the major spoke. She was beautiful, yes, but powerfully so. She had a strong jaw and a chiseled bone structure, with soft pink lips and thick, straight blonde brows. When she spoke, her wise eyes held steady as her mouth twitched, just the smallest movement. She nodded as she looked around, regarding every soldier respectfully. Her golden hair was pinned behind her head, as it had to be, but her long bangs swept across her forehead with a bit of a twist, a style John had never seen before. It took a moment for John to register what she was saying, as she was just oggling the way the sun caught the high parts of her cheeks and shadowed in the cut of her jaw and neck.

“…Happy to have this opportunity. I truly give my condolences to Major Carlton and those who admire her, but this is, as we know, war. It’s foolish to think there a no risks to a devotion such as ours. I will try to respect the conduct of this base and the leadership of Commander Avidan. I will not replace Major Carlton, nor do I expect you to accept me without difficulty. That being said, I’m looking forward to getting to know you and serving with you. Thank you.”

Her voice was calm and sure, and even as John stood in the back, she could feel it in her chest. It made her warm, warmer than the desert heat, and she kept her eyes on Major Sholto as Commander Avidan stepped forward and addressed the base. The new major stood aside, clasping her hands behind her back. John wanted to study the soft rise and fall of the major’s bust as the commander continued, but to keep herself professional she looked back at the base leader.

“Major Sholto has said it all, hasn’t she?” The commander looked at the new major and smiled, an expression John had yet to see their stern leader give freely. Apparently, she was pleased with Major Sholto’s modest yet respectful edict, and as the base knew, pleasing the commander wasn’t easy. This major was off to a good start.

The smile fell as turned back to her base. “Right, now that’s done. Back to your posts!”

Soldiers murmured and shuffled as they retreated, leaving the center area empty, clouds of dust kicking up as their boots padded off. John was left, leaning on her elbows against the warm metal. She was still staring at the major, completely entranced. Strangely, John hadn’t yet been so affected by a woman’s presence in all her years as much as this one’s. Just the way she held herself, the calmness in her voice and the hard lines of her handsome face had John sparking in interest and, truthfully, arousal. Naturally, John couldn’t help but stare - she had an affinity for gorgeous, capable women. And this one, God, this one was already proving to be just that.

Then, as the sound cut through John’s fantasy, she found that the commander was calling to her. She immediately snapped to attention and raised herself off the hood of the car.

“Doctor Watson!” she ordered.

“Commander?”

“I’m glad you’re still here. I want you to show the major around, introduce her to the workings of this camp, especially your medical tent.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Commander Avidan then turned to the major and said as John approached, “Watson is a fine soldier and a better doctor, as I’m sure you’ll come to learn.”

“I hope I will,” Major Sholto replied, quickly casting a glance John as she neared. Commander Avidan looked between them and beamed before shifting to step away.

“Afternoon, Commander,” the major said.

“Afternoon.” Then the commander was off, leaving John to stand before the new major, slightly pink in the face from more than the desert warmth.

* * *

The soldier that stood before Jamie was incredibly fit, that was clear. Jamie took a moment to regard her in all her glory, her stout but proud posture, her trim, flat stomach and cinched waist. She was clad only in trousers and a white undershirt, which spread beautifully over her supple bust and prominent clavicle. Her blonde hair was up and sloppy, wavy tendrils down at the sides of her tan face, shaggy bangs teasing the edge of her thin brows. Her eyes looked up at Jamie with an intensity she’d never seen, and a pink tongue darted out against her red lips. She smiled shyly as she dug her hands into her pockets. She was gorgeous, and Jamie knew she was fucked.

“Hello,” she said, cheeks pulling tight as a sweet, honey-like voice curled softly ‘round Jamie’s pink ears.

“Doctor Watson.”

“That’s right, but you can call me John.”

They hadn’t moved from the center of camp, but the world had gone blurry in swatches of beige and gold and blue as Jamie held the woman’s gaze. “John?” she felt herself ask, half a chuckle in her lungs.

“I know, it’s a man’s -“

“I like it when people call me James.”

“What’s that?”

“My name is Jamie, but I like when people call me James.”

The soldier - _John_ \- licked her lips again. “Ah. Well, glad we’re on the same page.”

“Definitely.”

Then they were back to staring, silence between them as they just smiled at each other. Jamie felt the wind on the back of her neck, and it had the loose hair around John’s face swaying, but they stood, transfixed. Finally, John looked down at her boots and kicked up the sand.

“Mght as well follow orders, yeah? Give you the tour?”

“I’d like that.”

John nodded towards a far end of camp, “Come on, then.”

They walked together slowly, John’s hands in her pockets until she pulled one out to point to things. Jamie found she liked John’s hands. Capable and delicate at the same time.

This base wasn’t unlike Jamie’s previous in the slightest. They had similar buildings: long and rectangle, buildings of beige and brown. And the tents were the same make, just little white tarp triangles rising from the sand. Rovers and water spigots pocketed certain areas, but the rest of the base was pure golden sand, unblemished as the afternoon wind reformed it. It was beautiful, Jamie supposed, in its own desolate way. Surely more beautiful was the woman walking beside her, pointing to various structures and people and calling them out.

“That’s the rec hell, that’s the mess hall, and those are the showers. Oh, and that woman right there is the funniest person I’ve ever met. Most of her jokes are self-deprecating or based on the misfortune of the soldiers, but it’s just real enough to be hilarious. That one over there came in about two years ago and brought with her letters and photos of her husband. She’d talk about him all the time, but now she doesn’t at all. Guess there’s really no use to, she’s not going home any time soon.”

“Hm.” Jamie really didn’t know what to say. She knew that people left behind their loved ones when they came out here, but it didn’t make it any easier.

They had made their way through the majority of the base, and were now approaching a congregation of medium-sized tents. Some women exited them, stretching in the warm air, muscular arms flexing. It was nice to see new faces, actually. New women, new chances for friendships. Or, as Jamie looked at John, something more.

John was looking towards something in the distance, unaware that Jamie’s eyes had gone soft as they roamed her face, neck, and chest. She turned back just as Jamie looked away. “Well, anyway. That’s the medic tent over there. I’ll show you around if you want.”

“Commander’s orders,” Jamie said, the smallest smile playing on her lips. It felt nice, actually, to have it there, just a faint smile. She hadn’t had reason to in such a long time.

She followed John as they came upon the tent, the stout soldier holding the flap open for her. She nodded curtly before stepping through and pausing, sensing John brush past her as she went to her table.

The place was, as she expected, exactly like her previous base’s medicine tent. The only thing that was different, of course, was John. And she stood beside the table, she traced a steady finger down the edge of her metal medic’s kit fondly. Jamie watched her for a while, until John straightened out and looked at her, expectant.

Jamie took the prompt and asked, “So, you’re a doctor?”

“Yes.”

The tent felt small as the two women stared at each other, John standing beside her working table, arms crossed under her breasts and James just a few feet away, stiff and respectful, hands behind her back. John raised her chin, waiting for Jamie to speak again. It was strangely endearing, actually, how John challenged her, how she wouldn’t demand the silence to be filled unless she herself wasn’t the one to fill it.

Jamie played along, shifting her weight to one foot and then the other. “That must be a very demanding job.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m sure you must have saved many soldier’s lives.”

“Many, but not all.”

John’s honesty surprised her. Her eyes remained steady as silence settled in again, Jamie taking a moment of respect to imagine how at fault John must have felt. However, John showed no signs of sadness or regret, as she shouldn’t. Losing soldiers was a part of their world just as the sand beneath their feet was. Occupational hazard, if you will.

“I’m sorry.”

John shrugged, “It’s all right. It gets me down some nights, of course it does, but you have to keep going.”

“That’s an honorable position to take, John.”

“It’s what we have to do. Be honorable.”

Jamie nodded, unsure how to carry on the conversation without drifting off into John’s eyes. They were so blue, so calm and sure. She could get lost in them. Hell, she already had.

Another few seconds passed before John perked up and turned around, gesturing to the kit, table, and tools. She reverted to her formal soldier composure as she told her of her duties and functions in practiced words. Jamie listened patiently, noting the hint of pride in John’s voice as she briefly covered operations and surgeries. It didn’t take long, as there wasn’t too much for John to say, and when they finished, John regarded Jamie and shot her a sly smile.

“Now, that’s that. What else should I show you?”

The mirth in John’s eyes returned, a glimmer of interest and (Jamie hoped) slight flirtation. Jamie pressed her lips together, hands going to her hips as she said, “Oh, I’ve a few ideas.”

“Yeah?” John cocked her head.

 _Definitely flirtation,_ Jamie thought.

One more playful moment passed between them before Jamie spread one arm out in gesture to the exit. “Lead the way, Doctor,” she hummed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I know a lot of the details in regards to the military base/ranks are... incorrect, to put it lightly. I've done research like I have for other fics, and apparently becoming a major takes 8 years and majors supervise like, two hundred soldiers. The base is probably wrong as are the soldiers' jobs, and I don't even think there is a commander... but you know... It's gonna be gay. It's gonna be John and Jamie falling in love and that's all that matters lmao
> 
> also Commander Daniel Avidan (shout out to Game Grumps) totes ships it


End file.
